Page 61 of Point of Mercy

“Mom—”

“In my book you live with a manafteryou marry him, not before—and I don’t care how much you’re involved with him. It just doesn’t look right!”

It was on the tip of Heather’s tongue to tell her mother that she planned to marry Turner, but she didn’t. She didn’t want to steal any of her sister’s thunder. Rachelle had waited too many years for the moment when she would become Jackson Moore’s bride, so Heather and Turner had agreed to wait until after Rachelle’s wedding to make an announcement about their own wedding plans. There wasn’t any hurry. Despite what her mother thought.

“Living in sin is against everything I ever taught you.”

“It’s not sin, Mom.”

Together they walked down the outside staircase and crossed the yard. Nearby, Turner was breaking a mule-headed colt and Adam was watching in rapt awe.

“Well, I will admit, Dennis didn’t seem like much of a father,” Ellen said as they walked onto the back porch. She glanced at her grandson. “I always wondered about that, you know. And I do believe that Adam deserves better.”

Heather smiled.

“Maybe Turner isn’t so bad, after all.”

“He’s not,” Heather assured her mother as they entered the kitchen. “Here. Sit down. I’ve got ice tea. You drink and I’ll start dinner.” She poured them each a glass of tea, and while her mother lit a cigarette, Heather began slicing scallions and mushrooms. She nearly cut off her finger when Ellen announced that she was starting work as a clerk at Fitzpatrick Logging.

Heather dropped her knife and stared at her mother in disbelief. “But—”

“Look, I need any job I can get,” Ellen said emphatically as she sat at the table in Turner’s kitchen and ignored the glass of ice tea that Heather had set before her. The ice cubes were melting and her lower lip quivered. “That stepfather of yours is trying to make sure I’ll have to work until I’m seventy,” she said, trying to fight back tears of self-pity.

“I know, but I just find it strange. You applied at the logging company—what—six or eight weeks ago and you were told there were no positions, right? Fitzpatrick Logging was going to be laying off men, not hiring clerks.”

“Well, things must’ve changed,” Ellen said, a little miffed. “Anyway, I can’t afford to be picky, and when Thomas called—”

“Wait. Time out. Hold the phone.” Heather pointed the fingers of one hand into the palm of her other in an effort to cut her mother off, and her stomach began to knot. “Thomas Fitzpatrick called you himself?” Her suspicions rose to the surface. “Isn’t that a little odd?”

“It is, but I thought, well, now that we’re practically family…” Ellen let her voice drift off, and Heather decided not to argue with her mother, who had taken more than her share of heartaches in life.

“When do you start?”

“Tomorrow. Can you believe it? I was so worried that I’d have to get a job in Jefferson City or even farther away. This will be so close and handy.” She stared up at her daughter. “It really is a godsend.”

“Then I’m glad for you,” Heather replied, though she felt uneasy. Thomas Fitzpatrick wasn’t a man to be trusted, and her mother had always been susceptible to the rich—believing their stories, hoping some of their wealth and fame might rub off on her. Dennis Leonetti was a case in point. And the Fitzpatrick wealth was rumored to be much more than the Leonettis’.

Heather glanced out the open window to the corral where Adam was hanging on the fence and watching his father as Turner trained a feisty gray colt. Shirt off, muscles gleaming with sweat in the afternoon sun, Turner held the lead rope, coaxing the nervous animal to trot around him in a circle. In another pen, one of the men who worked for Turner, Fred McDonald, was separating cows from their calves. The fragrance of roses mingled with the ever-present smell of dust and filtered into the warm room. The cattle bawled, Adam yelled at his dad and Turner spoke in soft tones to the headstrong colt.

“He almost ran for state senator,” Ellen said, still defending Thomas Fitzpatrick. Heather managed to change the subject as she heated a pot of water for the pasta and stirred the sauce. They talked about the wedding, less than a week away, and Ellen’s face brightened at the thought that one of her daughters might find matrimonial happiness, an intangible thing that had eluded her in two trips to the altar. Ellen’s opinion of Jackson Moore had turned around and she was beginning to trust Turner. A good sign. Now, if she’d just reform her opinion of Thomas Fitzpatrick…

“So how’s my grandson been?” Ellen said, finally sipping her tea while Heather worked at the stove, trying, with Turner’s limited cookware, to fix dinner. She’d invited her mother over for shrimp fettuccine, but cooking on the old range had been a trial. There were definitely some things about San Francisco that she would miss. In lieu of a whisk, she used a beat-up wooden spoon to stir the sauce.

“Adam?” she asked as the creamy sauce simmered. “He’s been fine.”

“And the surgery?”

“So far it’s been postponed. As long as Adam’s in remission, there’s no reason…” She glanced out the window and smiled. Adam’s new boots already were covered with a thin layer of dust, and his cowboy hat was, these days, a permanent fixture on his head.

Fred finished with the cows and waved to Turner as he climbed into his old Dodge pickup. Turner let Adam help him cool down the horse.

“Boots off,” Heather ordered as the two men in her life approached the back door. “And hands washed.”

“Mine are clean,” Adam replied holding up grimy palms for inspection as he tried to nudge one boot off with the toe of another.

“Not good enough,” she said. “March, kiddo…” She pointed toward the bathroom with her wooden spoon.

“Drillmaster,” Turner grumbled.

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